To Kill or be Killed
by Cher A. and Brittany S
Summary: The Reaping is the time of the year that the girl known as Foxface dreads most, particularly after what happened at the one preceding the Seventy-Third Hunger Games. When her name is selected, she finds herself facing a struggle to defeat her own inner reservations as well as her fellow tributes.


The day of the year I have absolutely dreaded ever since I turned twelve has come. The reaping. The day where I and everyone else between twelve and eighteen would be herded to the town square. The day two people would be selected to die or to live forever knowing how many people they killed when they are young.

I loathed the Reaping even more this year because of what had happened last year.

I am unable to eat my breakfast, so nervous I am. My parents tell me that not eating will not help matters any, but to no avail. I feel as though I would vomit just opening my mouth, let alone what might happen if I actually put food in my stomach.

"You are fortunate that you have food on the table at every meal," my father reminds me. "Many other children are not so lucky."

_Give it to them, then_, I think but do not dare say aloud. Although one might call me very rebellious if they were able to delve into my mind, I never voice thoughts of dissent aloud. Not to my parents. Not to my teachers at school. Not- everything forbid- in front of Peacekeepers. It is fortunate they cannot see what I am thinking on days such as today.

Instead, I say, "yes, Father." I manage a bite of toast, but am unable to stomach the thought of any more than that one nibble of crispy bread. "May I save this for later, please? I don't feel very well."

My mother sighs. "Fine, if you insist."

Ten-year-old Patrick pipes up, "_I'm_ hungry! I'll eat it for Kathleena!"

Mother chuckles. Typical Patrick, always saying that he's "famished," his favorite word, and wants more food. "Kathy will likely want it herself after the Reaping! Get an apple if you're really still hungry.

She puts my toast away where it would not go to waste.

Far too soon, I am being herded into the center of town in the terrifying roped-off area of the town square. I wish I could make time go faster so that the torture of this uncertainty would be over, at least for 364 days. _It's astounding how fast a year goes_, I wryly think to myself. I am not looking forward to thinking of whose seat might be empty at school next, especially given what had happened with Valencia last year. The loss still hurts every day. This is a cruel reminder that it has been nearly a year.

I chance a sidelong glance around, though not moving my head. I do not want unwelcome attention. I do not understand how the adults could be so cold and uncaring. Sure, they went through this themselves, but didn't they lose friends? Siblings? Classmates?

The same happens in other districts. Innocent teens become killers, and many ultimately die themselves. Do those people care, or are they as detached and desensitized as most of my district?

I do not ever want to be a killer. I don't think I have it in me to end a life.

They have finished rounding everyone up. Now they are talking about the rebellion of years long gone. Anyone still alive from that time, I think, would be very old indeed and was likely too young to remember anything of the civil war. I count myself glad I was not alive back then. I am the kind of person who gets upset around any kind of conflict. When my parents argue, I always find the first excuse to flee the room. I do not think I have it in me to kill.

Now the escort is informing us all of the results of selecting the names. Like we don't already know. Like the horror of the Reaping hasn't been burned into our minds since we were small children and first understood what it meant when one's name was called. Sure, some might state aloud that they consider it glorious and honorable to be chosen, but I notice the same people who embellish the riches winners of the Hunger Games receive from the Capitol in praise for their victory do not volunteer. Pure hypocrisy.

I, at least, have never once said aloud that people who were selected should be delighted. I have never contradicted the classmates saying things like "Valencia should be happy," as I am neither brave enough or stupid enough to do so, but at least I can be true to my private thoughts in staying silent rather than offering assent. I remember the silent tears that had run down Valencia's pale cheeks last year. Who would it be this year?"

As I stare fearfully at the escort, a sense of dread in the pit of my stomach, I subtly slip my hands into the pockets of my checkered dress. I dare not fidget any more, nor to whisper to either of my neighbors. The Peacekeepers do not take kindly to anything out of the ordinary from us, and the other fifteen-year-olds around me are still and silent.

The girl in front of me is obviously poor. Her gray dress looks as though it has not fit her properly since she was thirteen and has patches and loose threads, her shoes are visibly scuffed, and she is quite thin. I privately think to myself that she would be a likely candidate for this year. From the looks of her, she is alive only because of the tesserae.

I am glad I have never needed even a single tessera. My name is only in four times, the minimum number of entries for a fifteen-year-old such as myself. My father is in charge of one of the departments in a nuclear power plant. He has a decent amount of money to care for my mother, Patrick, and my older sister. There is even more now that Aisling, who is in her twenties, has moved out on her own. The odds were certainly more in my favor than that girl's, although perhaps not as much in my favor as equally well-off counterparts in districts such as Eleven or Twelve, which had a much larger population and were not exactly the level of One in affluence, to say the least.

The words "ladies first" snap me out of my thoughts. The dais with the escort is now painfully clear while everything around the figure with the megaphone seems to blur together in a sort of haze. It is as though things are moving in slow motion as the escort's hand moves at a snail's pace towards the glass balls containing girls' names.

The next two words out of the escort's mouth seem to pierce every fiber of my being.

My name.

**Author's Note: **Because very little information is given about Foxface, I have taken some creative liberties with the character, though I hope I have stayed true to the way she is on the exterior- introverted, perceptive, frightfully intelligent and very aware of what is going on around her. Although I have taken some information from the books, I intend this to be far more movie-verse. Also, I don't remember Foxface's real name ever being mentioned even once? I gave her one, but will change it if someone points out the page in the book that has her real name. Furthermore, please ignore sentence fragments, unless they seem not to fit somehow- I made a fair few deliberate ones. [= Thanks for reading!


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